Chapter Eleven: The Prophecy of Doom

“Teacher, how do you know all this?” Carlos asked in confusion.

“Perhaps it’s because I have a daughter-in-law and a granddaughter who are witches,” Augusta replied with a trace of irony, feeling he might need another drink of strong liquor.

Du Bouille seemed oblivious to the barbed remark.

“Carlos has also seen an awakened beast before.”

This time, Augusta couldn’t restrain himself. “Was it in Saltwell Town? Why was I completely unaware of it?”

“You were always buried in the steam engine room. Those beasts in the mountains are preparing for a large-scale emergence, crossing Eastern Cyprus in packs over the snow. There’s never been a beast tide of this magnitude, nor one with such a clear purpose. What do you think these beasts are planning?”

Carlos remembered the scene in the alchemy house’s beast chamber.

“Teacher, why did the two-headed dragon choose to trust you?”

Du Bouille walked to the window, gazing out into the night. He didn’t answer directly, but sighed and said, “Carlos Stevenson—I must call you by your full name, my student—never in all my years have I felt such a bone-deep chill. What you need to understand is this: the rise of the other races is upon us. They possess the power to control the beasts. The bloodline of the Pioneers is the only hope the Empire’s commoners have to defend themselves, the only force that can resist the darkness sweeping down from the north. If that day comes and you are not prepared, who knows how tragic the fate of this continent will be.”

Carlos could feel the sincerity and conviction in Du Bouille’s words, but the prophecy of the world’s end felt utterly foreign to him. His own power, discounting the untransformed darkness within him, was inferior even to a novice swordsman or warrior. To be entrusted with the responsibility of saving the world felt too far-fetched.

Having said what was in his heart, Du Bouille fell silent and left on his own.

Watching his teacher’s faltering steps, Carlos felt a pang of guilt.

“If I don’t sleep tonight, heaven knows how miserable I’ll end up,” Carlos thought as he stood, the strength of the local liquor having left him thoroughly drunk after just two glasses. “Lord Augusta, thank you for your advice.”

“Whatever you decide to do, be sure to let me know. That’s the best thanks you can give me.”

“I will.”

After Carlos left, Augusta’s expression grew serious. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a letter—the last message sent by the vanished scout team.

A figure dressed as a knight-guard suddenly stepped out from behind the statue near the fireplace, sword in hand, bowing to Augusta.

Augusta waved him off. “Derricht, are you truly set on living in the shadows from now on?”

Augusta had kept one secret from Carlos: his scout team hadn’t truly vanished. Outside the Blackstone Fortress, they had found Derricht and, at the cost of their lives, managed to bring him to the mouth of the Westling Strait. Derricht had been sent to Swordsman’s Port even before Carlos and his party arrived.

“Yes. Carlos must become the sole heir. He will be able to inherit everything from my father and ultimately restore our family’s honor.”

Augusta sighed. “Where will you go?”

“Here. The Swordsman Academy in Swordsman’s Port is among the best in the Empire. Until Carlos is ready, I must improve myself as much as possible.” Derricht hid his face behind his knight’s helmet, speaking earnestly.

Augusta straightened up. “Very well. I may never understand the people of the Stevenson family, but I respect your decision. If you need any official help, just have someone send word to the Steam Guard Legion’s camp.”

The knight gave no further reply, simply stepped back and melted into the shifting shadows behind the fireplace.

Carlos spent an uneventful night in the lord’s manor at Swordsman’s Port.

When he awoke in the morning, the cold outside was biting. The winter here was damper and more chilling than in Cyprus. Clad in a thick fur coat and pulling on his gloves, he nodded in greeting to the poor souls standing guard outside the castle.

He hurried his steps, crossing the courtyard on his way to the somewhat remote training hall within the vast castle.

His boots broke through the ice covering the cold night; snow crunched beneath his feet, and his breath frosted in the air like a banner.

Crossing his arms for warmth, he quickened his pace, hoping the morning training with Maclean and the trainee knights had not yet ended.

He thought to himself that he must have someone make a map of the castle and post it at every intersection. As lord of the castle, he’d already lost his way more times than he could count.

The watchtower beside the training hall soon came into view, but Carlos found himself unconsciously bypassing it, instead heading toward the snow-covered gardens on the broad second-floor terrace.

He saw a raven land atop the castle’s garden wall, perching on the battlements and cawing.

Suddenly reminded of something, he slowly approached the bird.

The stairs, built from rough timber beams, were deeply buried in ice, frozen solid.

The long staircase twisted and turned like a bolt of lightning, snaking its way up to the castle walls.

Murray, one of the three hunter brothers, was on duty in the watchtower. He suddenly noticed young master Carlos climbing the outdoor stairs of the garden. Wasn’t Carlos supposed to inspect the training grounds with the trainee knights this morning?

He exchanged a few words with the brother on duty beside him, then hurriedly left the watchtower.

The wooden stairs were sturdier than they appeared, but covered in ice, they were dangerously slick. Carlos could only climb with utmost caution, using both hands and feet.

He finally reached the castle wall, but the raven was nowhere in sight. Anxiously, he searched along the battlements.

Eventually, Carlos began to suspect he’d been seeing things. Disappointment washed over him as he leaned over the crenellations to look down.

The lord’s fortress, perched atop the highest hill in Swordsman’s Port, offered a commanding view of the entire city.

From on high, the coastal city revealed its true grandeur.

Far to the north, at the port on the Westling Strait, he saw countless dragonbone ships of various sizes moored—a true ice-free harbor, small and majestic in the distance.

Then, a gruff voice sounded behind him. “Damn it, it’s that little noble.”

A violent tremor followed. Carlos sensed the aura of a dark mage in the air. He turned and saw two ravens perched not far away on the wall.

“They want us to protect him, but he insists on courting death. Damn it all,” one raven croaked, opening its sharp beak to speak.

High atop the wall, the wind howled, making the night moan with pain.

Carlos stared in astonishment at the ravens on the icy wall.

“What are you looking at, you fool?” the other raven snapped impatiently.